


Answers In The Field

by Pyrasaur



Category: Pocket Monsters | Pokemon (Main Video Game Series), Pocket Monsters: Gold & Silver & Crystal | Pokemon Gold Silver Crystal Versions
Genre: Aged-Up Character(s), Dubious Consent, F/M, Power Play, Xenophilia
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-10-03
Updated: 2010-10-03
Packaged: 2017-12-21 22:30:13
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,149
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/905702
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Pyrasaur/pseuds/Pyrasaur
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Bugsy wants to learn. That's all he's ever wanted.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Answers In The Field

**Author's Note:**

> Based on a kinkmeme prompt: _All right, I want to see something where a trainer/trainers get off with the help of their Pokemon. Specifically, I want them to be in a sexual situation with Bug-type Pokemon. And I want it to be dirty -- even if it means the Pokemon are basically having sex with their trainers. Preferred trainers would be either Aaron or Bugsy. Genderbend them if you want, just to add to the kink. Or if you're not willing to do that, then using Lyra is fine too. Non-con or dub-con is loved especially. I like voyeurs and accidental walk-ins (perhaps joining the action?) too._
> 
> I've disregarded Bugsy's canon age. In this scenario, he's an older teenager.

     As an authority, he needed to know every detail, every possibility bug Pokemon had to offer. His favourite book was the old biology text with the diagrams of wing scale patterns; he read it every night, until he saw Butterfree markings inside his eyelids. He walked in Ilex Forest every day, watching for Weedle creeping in the bushes, listening for the _scritch-scritch_ of Paras digging for food. There was so much to learn, so much to know if he was going to be an expert, or even just a Gym Leader.

     No one had called him by his real name in years, not even Mom. He shed that name like a chrysalis. He was Bugsy, he knew that for sure now. He saved his money and went to Kanto, walking in new forests, always listening for wings and claws. He couldn't explain the thrill in his belly when he heard those sounds. All he knew was that he loved them, and wanted to hear more.

     And then he stopped in a café between forest hikes, and happened to chat with an old man, and before he knew it, Bugsy held a Pokeball for safe keeping — because, the nice old fellow said, this Pokemon deserved a feisty young trainer. Bugsy didn't remember much about that day, not where he stayed or how he got there; he only remembered letting his new Scyther out of her Pokeball, in a glorious spray of light.  
     She didn't say anything at first. Just stared at him with eyes as sharp as her blades. Bugsy stared, and swallowed the lump in his throat, and introduced himself.  
     He was too young and inexperienced for a Pokemon like this, he thought, and Scyther seemed to agree. She rose off the ground on buzzing wings — powerful but effortless, a pitch scratched into his memory forever — and settled on the opposite side of the room, ignoring him. Something lodged painful in his chest, but the rest of his body tingled with awe. He had a new Pokemon to study, the whole expanse of this beautiful Scyther's back to look at, the way her crystalline wing membranes caught light. And he was grateful for the chance.

     At first, Scyther didn't seem to care that Bugsy was studying her. He let her out in the mornings, and gave her training orders that she mostly ignored. Scyther were fierce, proud Pokemon. Training her would be hard, and Bugsy couldn't begin to mind. He sketched the individual variations of her carapace, and compared it to textbook references: his Scyther had a distictive pattern of spines on the back of her head, so she probably came from the Fuschia City region. He studied that particular book so hard that he missed dinner — because he had to if he wanted to know everything.

     He was focusing on his Caterpie's Tackling exercises, one sunny morning, when Bugsy's heart seized and he knew who was standing behind him. He heard the wingbeats, if a bit late, and he recognized that breathing pattern. Slowly, Bugsy turned, and faced his Scyther.  
     She bit out syllables — a question, Bugsy knew her enough to understand.  
     Oh, he replied, he was just watching how Caterpie was doing. She had been making real progress with her Tackle since she was focusing on bracing herself before she struck.  
     Scyther narrowed her eyes. She lifted her scythes, and flicked her wings restless, and snapped another shard of her name as she turned away.  
     That green-shining back, those clear-glittering wings. But she was braced and ready this time, and Bugsy hardly dared to hope that he was reading her stance properly. In the steadiest voice he could manage, he commanded her to Slash. Scyther moved like quicksilver, striking the air, and Bugsy couldn't have asked for anything more in the world.

     If he was strong enough to earn Scyther's respect, he thought, he was definitely making some headway. He started filling out paperwork, and requisitioning funding, and wondering what his Gym badge should look like. It was really boring stuff, so he did most of it sitting in Ilex Forest, listening to the hum of insects all around him.  
     He paid more attention to his Pokemon — not that he hadn't paid attention before, he just needed them to be strong and he needed to know, he always needed to see and hear and learn. His Weedle's skin felt drier lately, a sign that she was nearly ready to form her Kakuna shell. Scyther followed his orders, and didn't seem to care when Bugsy touched her.  
     He didn't push his luck that day. He only laid careful fingertips on her shoulder, where her tough armor connected to wing tissue, only for a moment. How incredibly smooth her carapace was, like metal with a pristine coat of paint. How amazing it was to feel the muddled thrum of insect pulse through her flight muscles.  
     He watched Scyther carefully in the seconds afterward. She stared just as carefully at him.  
     He just wanted to get to know her, Bugsy said.  
     And he couldn't place the strange roiling inside him, not until long after Scyther was inside her Pokeball.

     The paperwork was approved, and Bugsy passed his trainer aptitude tests; getting his Gym Leader licence wasn't quite the happiest event of his life, but it was definitely close. He watched the construction as much as he could but he hated the trucks and equipment: the noise drove all other sound away, like every bug in the forest hated it, too.  
     He walked farther to train. Out through Ilex, toward Route 34's meadows but not all the way. He let Scyther out of her Pokeball, and didn't give her any commands just yet; he needed a bit longer listening to the breeze and trying to hear Weedles, Paras, Ledyba, _anything_.  
     When he noticed Scyther's silence, he found her staring. Sharper than usual, digging into Bugsy and lifting up his nails. He asked her what was wrong.  
     She spoke. _Nothing is wrong_ , he understood.  
     Scyther was right. He didn't need to be worked up, out here in a quiet place with his prized bug Pokemon. He smiled, and thanked her, and told her to try that Fury Cutter move again.

     They got some good training in that day, clicking in a way Bugsy couldn't describe but could feel. They ate lunch together like friends, rice and high-protein Pokemon food in identical square containers. And then Bugsy was uncrossing his legs, reaching for a lid, when he knew who was standing over him.  
     Yes, he knew exactly how Scyther's footfalls sounded and how she huffed faintly when something was bothering her. Breath fell on the back of his neck. Scythes gleamed on either side of him.  
     What was she doing, Bugsy asked? His voice was strangely calm in his own ears.  
     She didn't answer; she was sniffing his skin. Rapid, shallow inhalations that the average person wouldn't even recognize coming from a bug Pokemon. She was compensating for her lack of sensitive antennae, Bugsy's encyclopedic mind chattered, and she was learning about him.  
     In that tense, forever-long moment, Bugsy was motionless with his stomach turning somersaults, and his Scyther's breath raised hair down his neck. He wondered if this counted as a first of something. What a weird thing to think. He didn't bother with ideas like romance, not when he had studying to do.  
     Scyther's growl formed sense in his head: _If you want to do something, you should just do it. Stop wasting time._  
     He wanted to swallow but his mouth was thick as tar. He turned, sitting on the grass to face her, pulse drowning out his thoughts. Scyther loomed over him and trees loomed even taller than she did. He just wanted to learn everything about bug Pokemon, he told Scyther. If she was alright with that.  
     Scyther stared through him. They sat there in the forest, a beautiful insect in her prime mantled over Bugsy, a young man who shouldn't have been reacting the way he was but he couldn't help it. Her wings flicked restless and the sound of membranes against air was entrancing.  
      _Learn, then,_ Scyther said. She lowered her snout to his neck, sniffing. Her scythes settled lower, two razor edges resting on his T-shirt-clad shoulders.  
     Fear spiked liquid through Bugsy, but was fine, he reminded himself. His Scyther wouldn't hurt him. She was aloof; she was headstrong; she was strong enough to slice him to ribbons but she wouldn't hurt him. It was well documented that Scythers hated to win without a challenge. He took a shaking breath, and raised a hand to her chest. New-metal sleekness, and taut cartilage between each plate. He hadn't even considered how the ligaments felt; he contemplated the texture and realized that he was stroking her, running the pad of one thumb on Scyther's chest and between her armor.  
      _Learning to do this, too?_ She nipped his neck, and a sound Bugsy didn't recognize squeaked from his own throat. _Lower._  
     He should have protested — no, he should have ordered his Pokemon to _stop_ , since she would only follow a leader. This was a chance to get to know her, but in the completely wrong way and he wished Scyther's breath and teeth against his neck wouldn't make him feel so dizzy. Bugsy ran his hand lower. Hourglass waist, and sleek, plate-covered abdomen, and the dip in her carapace that meant he was close.  
     I don't know if I want to learn about you like this, he said, quietly. He was so aware of his small, sure voice, wondering how it felt to an insect sensing vibrations. Did Scyther want him to ...?  
     She did, Bugsy supposed, suddenly breathless as she crouched closer. Close enough to touch her body to his hestitating hand, and close enough to press that hand against his own hipbone; she thrummed all over with her indistinct pulse and she was a fascinating creature. He tried to find the nerve to run fingers over her cloaca but that seemed too much and too soon to know it. And in that same instant, Scyther bit the junction of his neck and shoulder and ground their bodies together, too electric and real. He had never read about behaviour like this, Bugsy's mind distantly informed him. Female Scyther didn't usually initiate. Humans weren't suitable mates. He wondered if his erection felt strange to her, if she was expecting another cloaca. She didn't seem to care, just pressed all her sharp edges against him and held still, for a moment full of forest quiet. Strong muscles covered in strong chitin, holding him ferocious and then she was gone, flying to the other side of some bushes. Flight wind gusted over Bugsy and he listened to every wingbeat, and he was a gasping boy with a wet spot in his pants who knew nothing at all.

     He took notes on the experience — vague ones, carefully phrased. He never meant his journals for anyone else's reading, exactly, but it didn't hurt to be cautious. Caterpie evolved, and the Gym needed its interior landscaping done, and it took a few days for Bugsy to look his Scyther in the eye.

     He was patting the last of the mulch into place in his Gym Leader clearing, listening to Scyther trim the shrubs like he wanted her to, when he asked why she did it. They were alone, this late in the evening; the humming overhead lights were intrusion enough.  
      _You waste your time,_ Scyther said, without pause, slicing another branch with a sword-clean sound. _You would be a better leader if you knew when to stop asking questions._  
     He wanted to be a capable bug Pokemon trainer, he told her. He let out a sigh, wiping his dirt-stained hands on his shorts. And he cared a lot about bug Pokemon but, that—  
     He got to his feet, and turned: Scyther was staring at him, sharp as blades.  
     Thanks, he told her. For trying to help him learn. Should Bugsy try to find her another Scyther, if she wanted one?  
     She spat a syllable of her name, too bitterly to mean much. _I would rather have you_ , she said, _Since you are going to end up capable._  
     Queasiness gripped Bugsy. He wasn't sure whether to be relieved when the door banged distantly open; if he hadn't had to talk business with the construction foreman, he wouldn't have known what to say.

     Bugsy had more trees planted in his Gym, for cover, just in case. He swallowed his guilt, deciding that textbook precidents weren't everything and that he didn't _dislike_ the feeling afterward, loose-limbed and exhilerated, insect anatomy vividly remembered. He helped Scyther perfect the Fury Cutter. She obeyed him now, without hesitation, whenever it mattered.

     His notes on the anatomy of Fuschia-region Scyther grew impeccably detailed; Bugsy liked to think he knew all the possibilities.


End file.
